


bold in fucking deed

by nanbread



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Blood Magic, Free Marches, M/M, Mercenaries, Orlesian Nonsense, Ostwick, Pre-Dragon Age: Inquisition, Slow Burn, a shitload of ocs - Freeform, gay mercs
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-05-21
Updated: 2015-06-19
Packaged: 2018-03-31 14:34:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,683
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3981673
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nanbread/pseuds/nanbread
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The first thing Augustin noticed, unbelievably, was the <i>smell</i>.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

The first thing Augustin noticed, unbelievably, was the smell.

The Marcher smelled overwhelmingly sweet – of sugar, of _wealth_. Crystal chandeliers, plush sofas, and legions of servants came to mind; nothing that Augustin had ever known, that’s for damned sure. And yet, that didn’t stop foreigners from assuming he was a rich bastard. Being Orlesian, surprisingly, was more difficult than it seemed – especially when your living was made by traveling to the ass-end of Thedas and every Fereldan bastard you crossed was trying to pick a fight. 

Nevertheless, the smell. Every other man and woman in _les plaies sablonneux_ could smell the noble off of him. If that alone didn’t do him in, he had the stature of a man who had had the world handed to him, standing contrapposto like one of those gaudy statues Augustin had seen in Antiva City.

“What do you want?”

“No need to be so rude,” the noble grinned, shifting his weight onto one foot. 

Again, those Maker-damned hips.

“I’ll ask you again, what brings you to _les plaies_? You got coin to drop or you just having a look-see?” Augustin wiped his brow.

“I was under the impression you lot were hiring,” the man suggested. “Was I mistaken?”

There was no way this _bâtard_ could have the balls to work as a merc, Augustin thought. _Les plaies_ were founded by penniless men and sacked soldiers; hiring a noble would practically be sacrilege. They were, admittedly, relatively low on recruits – the civil war in the Dales had sent most of their men off to join a real army, where warm beds and food were guaranteed, as opposed to a luxury.

Augustin shifted, clearing his throat. “My apologies. We are, in fact, hiring. I just assumed a man of your… status would be hiring us, not joining us, _monsieur_.” 

“Oh, you’re _Orlesian_ ,” his eyes lit up. He then waved his hands in clarification, “No no, I’m not here to criticize, truly. I just have sort of a… fascination with all things Orlais,” he added, tucking a stray lock of red hair behind his ear.

Cute.

“Well,” Augustin grinned, “I’ll try not to disappoint, then.”

“Lou, of House Trevelyan,” the man offered his hand.

“Augustin Forgeron, Captain of _les plaies sablonneux_.” he took Lou’s hand, shaking it firmly.

\- 

“You do know how to handle that bow, right? Or is it just for show?” Remy laughed, nursing his drink.

Augustin had let Lou him to The Robber and Crusader, a small - and admittedly seedy - tavern on the edge of town; _les plaies_ ' de facto headquarters, it seemed. He had introduced him to Remy, his second-in-command, a moustached Orlesian who seemed to have a perpetual layer of filth on him. He seemed nice enough for a mercenary, if a little intrusive.

Lou rolled his eyes. “Yes, yes, I can use the fucking bow. My brother Reece taught me when I was young, if you must know.”

“Your pet noble has quite the mouth on him, eh, Augie?” Remy drawled.

Augustin rolled his eyes. “Stuff it, you bastard. You’re not being very welcoming to the new recruit,” he said, shooting Lou an apologetic look.

“It’s no problem, really,” Lou insisted, taking the flagon being offered from Augustin’s hand.

He had lovely hands, Lou mused. Maker’s breath, he had just met the man. He was already turning into a heroine as written by that Dwarven author everyone and their mum was raving about. But honestly, Augustin was the epitome of a fine Orlesian man – the way Nanon would describe Lou’s father when he was younger and less of an arsehole. Capable, strong, and _void_ … hot. They didn’t make men anything like _this_ in the Marches, that’s for bloody sure.

And that laugh.

Lou looked up from his drink to see Augustin in a fit of roaring laughter over something filthy Remy had said, with his head thrown back and throat laid bare. His brown skin glittered with sweat, and Lou quickly sipped at his ale to distract himself. 

“Maferath’s mortal dick, Remy. You are a bad, bad man,” Augustin smiled, shaking his head slowly.

Remy snorted. “What can I say? I was nineteen and in Lothering, you know, the ass-end of Ferelden. The women there don’t know any better and they just… flocked to me. We can’t all be as lucky as you, mate – Maker knows Ostwick is practically full of cocksuckers. Right up your alley, as I always say.” He resumed downing his drink noisily.

Lou’s eyes quickly darted to Augustin to gauge his reaction.

He was nodding into his flagon genuinely, one hand timidly scratching at his beard.

Thank the Maker.

\- 

“There you are. _Les plaies_ turning out to be rowdier than you can handle?” Augustin grinned, hoisting himself up to sit next to Lou.

Lou had stepped outside for some fresh air, the tavern being oppressively hot and loud for his liking. The hot ocean wind tousled his hair and sent the sand scratching at his ankles.

Lou rolled his eyes. “Hardly. Are you implying you and Remy are the entirety of _les plaies_?”

“ _Non non,_ ” Augustin tutted. “Me, you and Remy are the entirety of les plaies.” He slurred, and the two of them laughed quietly. “In all honestly though, the rest of the boys are doing some work in Kirkwall. You’ll meet them when they return in a few days.”

“Fair enough,” Lou smiled.

A beat passed, a few straggler seagulls cawing noisily in the distance.

“So,” he turned to Augustin, “Why _les plaies sablonneux_?”

“Well, if you _must_ know, it means “the sandy wounds” in Orlesian. I’ve lived near the sea all my life.”

“That’s it? That’s all there is to it? _Augie_?” Lou teased, shifting closer to him.

“ _Merde_ , not you too,” Augustin scoffed. “But no, my father worked on the docks in a small shipping village near Val Royeaux when I was young. When work got scarce, he turned to piracy – and he took me with him on all his exploits. I think he knew, though, that it was no life for a young boy. When I was just twenty, he and a few of his old crew founded the _les plaies_.”

“Just twenty? Watch your tongue – I turned twenty last month, old man.”

“You’re twenty years?” Augustin’s eyes widened. “Maker’s breath, you are a young thing.”

“That a problem?” Lou teased. “How old are you?”

Augustin scratched at his beard in thought. “Let me see… well, a few years back during that job in Minrathous, I’m sure that I turned twenty-seven… so I suppose that makes me… _void_ … thirty? I’m not positive. The years seem to just,” he gestured to the wind. “Come and go.”

“You don’t know your own bloody age?” Lou asked, incredulously. “Maker, what a blessing that must be.”

“What makes you say that?” Augustin’s forehead creased in confusion.

“Oh, only that my entire life has been predetermined as a series of fucking stepping stones. Each birthday I’m blessed with an absurd new responsibility in order to ‘uphold the glory of my family’. At eighteen it was to ‘dedicate my mortal soul to the Chantry’s service’. As if the Maker cares if I rot as a brother, in the Order, or fuck off entirely,” Lou took a frustrated swig of his ale. “That’s why I finally left. It’s all bullshit. ‘Bold in fucking Deed’.” 

His voice had cracked nervously a little at the end. He could tell Lou had given this speech tens of times, but that fire was not entirely there. Augustin blinked.

The two were quiet for a few moments.

“So, do you,” he paused. “Do you believe in the Maker?”

Lou turned to face him, his eyes glistening a little. “That’s the thing… _yes_.” His hands clenched into fists in his clean, fitted trousers. “I _love_ Him. I love Him and I love his Bride. In some moments, they’re… all I have.” He looked down at his feet in the sand. “After Reece left, to join the Order… there was nothing. Nothing for me in the whole world,” His voice quieted, suddenly vulnerable.

This puffed-up pretty noble, he was _faithful_ – like actual, honest-to-Maker faithful. Augustin couldn’t believe it. 

It was... endearing.

After that, the two of them sat quietly in understanding, in one another’s company. The last of the gulls had finally flown off, and there was nothing but the sound of the waves and some muffled laughter coming from the tavern. 

After a time, Augustin felt a soft, warm weight. He looked away from the waves to see Lou’s face settled in the juncture between his neck and shoulder, his soft breath slowly fanning out over the collar of Augustin’s linen shirt. He was asleep.

Augustin smirked. 

“There’ll never be nothing for you again, _chéri_.”


	2. Chapter 2

Typically, Lou was used to having pleasant mornings.

Back at the Trevelyan estate, his days began whenever it was convenient for him; and because he slept like the dead, they generally started past midday.

Each morning he would stretch melodramatically, his feet digging into Orlesian silk. The sound of his yawn served as the cue for Sarres, his personal servant, to knock at his bedroom door. The elf would walk in with an armful of linens, bashful – all “beg your pardon, milord”s and “excuse my intrusion, milord”s – despite that his family had worked for them for over a decade. Lou would remind him that it’s “quite alright, Sare,” and that there was “no use apologizing over good work,” and Sarres would blush profusely at the nickname and nod, then ushering Lou downstairs to break his fast.

On this particular morning, he supposed running away from home was not quite as romantic as he had initially thought.

“ _Trevelyan_!” Remy hollered, the door to his room swinging open.

Lou offered no response.

“Mate – I’ve been calling your name for the past half hour,” The wooden flooring creaked as Remy made his way over to his bed.

Lou nestled deeper into his blankets, groaning languidly.

“We’ve been hired, Trevelyan, so you’d best get your pretty arse up before the captain decides to kick you out. On your first day on the job, at that,” Remy hissed, articulating his point by kicking Lou’s mattress.

“Maker’s breath,” Lou moaned into his pillow, finally daring to his turn is face to Remy’s. “Fine. Give me five minutes to put myself together?” He squinted pitiably.

“Make it two. Captain’s orders,” Remy nodded.

-

 

Their contact had agreed to meet them behind the market around midday, in an alley where merchants typically dumped unwanted goods where it was out of view from the rest of the square. Augustin, along with Remy, Lou, and two other fresh recruits, had been loitering there for a little over an hour, impatiently shifting and shuffling their boots on the dusty cobblestone.

One of the new recruits, Parker, was a lanky young Fereldan who spoke with a noticeable stammer. He seemed a decent enough sort, Augustin thought, if a little inexperienced. Parker clutched his blade on his hip fervently; a sturdy rapier of far too good craftsmanship for someone of his standing to afford. Perhaps a family treasure, Augustin considered. It looked well maintained and suitably sharp, yet the blade was decidedly timeworn, with striking blue stones inlayed on the hilt.

The other recruit, who spoke little, was a strong-jawed woman who introduced herself as Septima. She carried a massive two-handed flail – which was, frankly, terrifying – and she spoke with a strange accent that Augustin did not recognize, although he assumed she was a Vint. He supposed that Septima was not her real name, as she spoke it with a kind of plain detachedness that he found strange. He was not one to pry, however; his father had always told him that _les plaies_ were a refuge for sorts like her.

“Mercenary work,” he had often said, “attracts lost souls. You’d do good to remember that, _chou._ As long as they’ve got skill with a bow or blade, they are _une plaie_ , regardless of their past.”

As Augustin observed Septima, she caught his eye. Her body noticeably tensed, and her eyes shifted away guardedly.

He decided she was the kind of woman who one would do good to leave be.

“C-c-captain,” Parker suddenly turned to Augustin. “Should w-we be waiting here? I think this area is under those Templars’ jurisdiction,” He pointed to a small group of Templar knights, noisily socializing on the Chantry’s steps. 

Remy laughed softly. “As much as Templars like to believe they enforce the law in Ostwick, we have the city guard for that. As long as we keep our distance, we should be fine, _non_?”

“Well, mercenaries are sort of a… grey area, aren’t they?” Lou asked, glancing at Augustin. 

Augustin scratched at his beard. “No, but the guard makes sure to stop us weekly and ask for proof of legal authorization.” He shrugged. “If you’ve not properly registered with the Viscount, you’re as good as a petty street gang, as far as they’re concerned. Templars, however, have no right to do anything.”

“In Denerim, t-too, the T-t-templars are like watchdogs,” Parker spoke slowly. “See?”

The four other mercenaries reluctantly turned to face him. The Fereldan beckoned them closer, lifting his shirt to reveal a massive scar that ran from his chest to just below his navel. The marred skin stretched over his belly, looking painful even as Parker breathed. It must have been a fatal gash once, Augustin thought.

“Fuck…” Lou said eloquently.

Even Septima grimaced — more than usual.

“Tits. What did you do, boy?” Remy asked.

His jaw tightened noticeably.

“Nothing. When Templars run out of m-m-mages to harass, they find new m-meat.” 

The young man’s eyes met Augustin’s in validation.

Behind them, the group of Templars began to make their way closer. The crowd of market-goers quickly parted, making way for them and their bulky suits of armor. They stopped just short of the alley, sizing up Augustin and the others. A blonde woman in front—appearing to be the group’s senior—peered at them cagily.

“Greetings, Ser Templar,” Augustin called her over, casually gripping his sword with one hand.

“Knight-Lieutenant Hart,” the woman clarified. “Are you perhaps the _pla-ees_ mercenary company, waiting for a contact?” She murdered the Orlesian pronunciation – Augustin could feel Lou smirking behind him.

“Indeed, we are. May we… help you?" 

“I am your contact,” she gave him a flat smile. “It appears that I require the _pla-ees_ ’ assistance in a matter concerning the safety of every citizen of Ostwick.”

“ _Plaies_ ,” Lou corrected. Augustin immediately rolled his eyes. 

“Sorry…?” Hart’s brows furrowed.

Augustin turned to look at him in disbelief, Lou grinning playfully.

“It is no matter. Continue,” he cleared his throat. 

Hart wiped her brow, evidence of a long day keeping watch in the square with no available shade.

“I’ll preface by saying that hiring your company is in direct violation of my superior’s orders. But it seems I have little choice.” It was unnerving, Augustin noted, to see someone who demanded as much respect as a Templar looking this anxious. She continued, “Recently, several members of the Ostwick Order have been kidnapped. I require your help in finding them.” 

Lou’s smile fell.

Augustin held up a hand in clarification. “Why doesn’t the Order just look into this?”

“The Knight-Captain doesn’t consider the disappearances to be an arcane matter, so he has washed his hands of it completely. The guard, similarly, cannot spare the men to help find them, so they’ve ruled this to be a Templar issue. I’m caught in a bureaucratic nightmare,” Hart explained, clearly exasperated. “Meanwhile, decent men and women are going through Maker-knows-what, somewhere. I had to act.”

“I’m—“ Lou interrupted, lightly touching Augustin’s shoulder. “I’m sorry to interrupt, ser, I just need— if you don’t mind me asking, who are the missing?” He approached Hart cautiously. “I have a brother who serves.”

Hart was silent, her eyes shifting to her comrades’.

One Templar supplied, “You’re Trevelyan’s brother, right? I’d know that face anywhere.”

Lou nodded.

He paused, his face troubled. “I’m so sorry. Ser Reece is gone.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thx for reading! it's a little early for me to be hitting writer's block, but it happened nonetheless :~) reviews would be appreciated!

**Author's Note:**

> this is the first thing i've really written and put out there, so apologies if it updates sporadically. i also have inspiration for short scenes - rather than an overarching plot in mind - hence the breaks. thanks for reading!


End file.
